


The Healing of Sherlock Holmes

by honeycakes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Affection, Angst, Awkwardness, Coercion, Cuddling, Drunk Sherlock, Emotional Sherlock, Eventual Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, His Last Vow Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Morning After, Obsessive Sherlock, Possessive Sherlock, Post-His Last Vow, Sexual Coercion, Sexual Content, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sleep, Triggers, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:58:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeycakes/pseuds/honeycakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-His Last Vow. Sherlock realizes why it was that Magnussen affected him so very much, and suddenly needs to make things right with Molly straight away. Contains spoilers, angst, fluff, and Molly Hooper being the most incredible woman ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Everything was going wrong. Everything. Everything was a confusing jumble, and Sherlock couldn't seem to untangle it. Not in his current state.

 

He had taken a life. Killed. That in and of itself was not a huge concern to him. To use those same words John had so very long ago, "He was not a very nice man." And really, Sherlock had damaged people before, some may never recover. He had pushed Mrs. Hudson's attacker out the window. And then, anger not yet satisfied, he had gone downstairs, grabbed the stocky man by the arms, and had dragged him back in. Up the stairs. He'd heard a few dull thunks as the man's head collided with things, and he was almost certain that he'd dislocated both the man's arms in the process. And then, on getting him back into the apartment, he'd dragged him over to the window and tossed him out of it again. He'd broken his ribs, fractured his skull, and potentially given him lasting brain damage. The man would likely never fully heal.

 

But somehow, this was different. Worse. He had attacked that- that _villain_ to physically protect his sweet, maternal landlady. The kind woman who made him tea every morning, just the way he liked it, and dealt with him and his odd tendencies. She didn't mind that he often longed for a vicious crime to keep him from getting bored. She even took it in stride when he was awful to her, shouting, deducing, and sometimes, without really meaning to, being completely, viciously cruel. He had defended her, protected her, and then made sure her attacker would never hurt her again.

 

But this was different. That shark of a man- True, he was a villain- But in a way, he was not. He was cruel. He was efficiently evil. And he was smart, Sherlock had underestimated how truly brilliant he was. But he hadn't harmed anyone, past damaging their reputations. Blackmailing. Nobody had died.

 

Well, except those he'd driven to suicide. And, of course, the man himself. And that death wouldn't have happened unless it needed to, and it did, because this time he threatened Mary. This time, he attacked John. He needed to be stopped, and Sherlock knew he needed to be the one to do it. But Sherlock also knew something else, because a consequence of being truly brilliant was to have an almost unerring knowledge of your own mind. What Sherlock knew, what Sherlock really, REALLY knew, was that Magnussen needed to go. Needed to die. More than anyone else. He needed to be wiped off the planet more than all the killers out there, more than even Moriarty had needed to. Because Sherlock had looked into Magnussen's eyes, and had seen something that had frozen him, twisted his insides with fear.

 

He had seen himself.

 

A brilliant man, who somehow never quite seemed human. Whose intellect was so great that it created a rift between himself and others. His cool, calculating mind, which was never distracted by something as petty and unnecessary as _emotion_. Not that emotion didn't exist, just that it was so much easier to pack it away into a small tin box and leave it collecting cobwebs just outside the realm of his conscious mind. A man who knew what he wanted, and went after it, not caring who he mowed down, hurt, left destroyed along the way. There were differences, of course. Sherlock knew that. Sherlock had found John. A friend. A friend who wouldn't stand for Sherlock burying away his feelings, who had thrown open the tin and then punched what was inside of it. And Sherlock found himself feeling much more human all the time. Empathizing with others. Being more gentle to avoid hurt feelings of those he cared about. But those he didn't?

 

Sherlock had gone home after the whole exhausting affair, only to find he couldn't sleep. He was shaking. He needed... Something. He needed a fix. He needed to be calm. So he slapped on a nicotine patch. And when that didn't seem enough, he slapped on four more. And then had a fag for good measure. But that only seemed to make it worse. He tried all manner of things. He tried a hot bath, and then he tried a cold shower, and then he tried vigorous exercise, there in the middle of his empty apartment. And when all that and a handful of other desperate attempts failed, he stole away into Mrs. Hudson's flat downstairs, picked the lock on her liquor cabinet, and borrowed a bottle of bourbon. And still, sitting at his table, alone in his flat, staring at the couple of fingers' worth left in the bottle, he felt utterly... _Emotional_. Because that was the only word that encompassed all of it. He was scared, he was nervous, he was anxious, he was depressed, he was lethargic, he was energetic, he was regretting, he was every negative emotion he had ever felt.Standing front and center in the middle of his mind palace were all the people he had hurt. The people he hadn't really cared enough about at the time to handle with the care they deserved. And they were drowning him, overwhelming him. And he wanted to make it all better. But he couldn't think how.

 

There was Mrs. Hudson, who he'd yelled at a number of times. But he'd attacked her attacker, saved her, and had been so much more careful with her since he'd come back. Even so, in his mind he saw her face after one time he'd been particularly harsh. Tears in her eyes, her face pink with emotion, her chin wobbling- It spurred him on down the line.

There was that woman John had briefly dated, Sarah or Sally or something, the one who'd almost been killed by a group of deranged circus performers that worked for Moriarty. He saw her, tied to that chair, weeping eyes shut, trying so very hard to be brave. But Sherlock didn't even remember her name, let alone where she had come from, and besides, he'd saved her life. He moved on.

Sally Donovan, he'd humiliated.

Anderson, he'd driven slightly mad with grief and guilt.

Lestrade, he had in a constant state of aggravation.

Mycroft, he had been a constant disappointment to.

His parents, try as he did he had never been able to be that sweet, smiling son they had so wanted.

John.  _John_. John who had almost died because of him, so many times.John who he'd abandoned, leaving him grieving and damaged. John, whose wedding, not to mention his marriage, he had nearly destroyed. But in spite of it, all of it, John had somehow forgiven him. They all had. All the names, all the faces, all those people he'd hurt because of his damnably cold, harsh, shark-like ways. They had all found their ways to forgiving him. He had done what he could for all of them, to make it up to them. None of them were really still hurt by him, not even Janine, who he'd tricked into loving him before proposing and abruptly calling it off, because there had never been anything between them except a strangely comfortable sort of comraderie. But he needed, NEEDED to do something. To prove he felt, that he wasn't Magnussen, that his intellect wasn't so great that it made him unable to love. He needed to fix something, to heal someone, to make something  _right_.

 

And then, he saw her. Standing in the back of the group in his mind. Her head lowered, half hidden behind the rest of them, as she so often was. Her eyes filled with quiet tears, and almost worse, the expression of someone who had grown accustomed to being in pain.

 

Molly. Sweet, loyal, dependable Molly. Molly who he had seen falling in love with him, and he had exploited it, leading her on so she'd do things to assist him. Molly who he had constantly ignored and overlooked. Who he had tricked into helping him, never really understanding that he didn't need the tricks, she'd have done anything he asked her simply out of being a kind person. A friend. Molly, who he had sorely underestimated. Who had become so desperately important to him. She'd helped him, because of her he was alive. She'd become a voice in his mind, reasoning with him, talking him down. But he had hurt her. He had humiliated her. He had so badly messed with her, that she had come dangerously close to marrying a man purely because, in a subconscious sort of way, he'd reminded her of Sherlock. Time and time again he had used and abused Molly, and had never stopped to try to make it better.

 

Sherlock straightened in his chair, and then stood abruptly, only to fall hard to the floor, the alcohol suddenly hitting him like a tidal wave. He needed to fix Molly. He needed to find a way to help her, before his eyes became cold, flat, dead- Like a shark. He needed to make Molly happy. And he needed to do it _now_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a second chapter on the way, it just seemed like too much to do it all in one. I hope you enjoyed my fic, and thank you so much for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock drunkenly stumbles into the night in search of Molly, desperate to try to give her anything he thinks she may need. Which is tricky, given his tendency to not know what other people really need. Needless to say, things don't quite go as planned.
> 
> TW: This chapter contains coercion, and unwanted sexual advances.

He had tried to put his coat on, but hadn't been able to make the sleeves work the way sleeves ought to. He hadn't stopped to eat anything, to wait for the alcohol to wear off. Sherlock had made the decision to go see Molly, and then, quite suddenly, he was falling out of a cab, having handed the driver his wallet. The kind, older gentleman had quickly popped around to grab Sherlock under the arms and pull him up so he was leaning against the door of the vehicle. And then he was shouting things, shouting while he dug out the appropriate number of bills and tucked the wallet into Sherlock's shirt pocket. Shouting words like “...bit of a tip...” and “...okay?...” and “...missus gonna let'chu in, eh?” Sherlock rolled his head over onto his shoulder and looked up at the cabbie, suddenly feeling incredibly warm toward the nice man who'd brought him to Molly's front door. He felt his eyes burn a little, and then suddenly he had headbutted the man in the shoulder, trying to express his warm, brotherly feelings. Now the cabbie sounded flustered, and was shouting a bit more, words like “...oi, you sure you're gonna...” and “...don't really understand Russian...”. But none of it made a lick of sense to Sherlock, not that he was really paying attention, because from his spot under the cabbie's coat collar, he had squinted over at the door and read the number.

 

The number was 12. Number 12. The number was big, shiny and brass. And Sherlock remembered his mission.

 

He pushed himself up with the help of the cab door handle and the head of the cab driver, and stumbled toward it. Somewhere behind him, he heard the cab pulling away. Sherlock raised a hand to knock, and then stopped when he thought of the time. It was about half past three in the morning, and suddenly Sherlock felt worried about waking Molly, worried that waking her would only make her sadder, because Molly gets grumpy when she doesn't get enough sleep. The fist he'd raised for the purpose of knocking fell heavily to his side. And then hit the ground hard, as the weight of it pulled the rest of him down as well. Sherlock found himself kneeling in front of the door, without really knowing how he'd gotten there. And he was appalled to find that his eyes were welling up. He tightened his jaw as his brow lowered heavily, and tried, tried so very hard, to be less drunk. 'Come on,' came his brother's voice in his mind. 'You've come all this way. You know what you need to do. Now stop being such a complete bore.' Sherlock growled, and then made himself stand.

 

'Right.' he thought, ignoring the fact that even his mind was slurring. 'Hafta get in. Hafta find Molly. Can't knock, knocking will make her grumper.' So he thought, tried to think, about a solution. Then he backed up a bit, took a deep breath, and aimed a hard kick at the doorknob. Sure enough, the door popped right open! No knocking required. And so, Sherlock fell into Molly's foyer. It was very dark inside. Dark, and it felt... Odd. Odd seemed a good word for what it felt, Sherlock decided. It felt empty. A bit too quiet. He squinted into the darkness of the cozy little one-story home. He tried to use the front door to push himself up, but all it did was swing shut, making him swing right along with it. He bashed quite hard into the door frame, although the pain didn't really register. He was too focused on the task at hand to feel pain. His eyes were narrowed, and he was frowning so hard that he couldn't remember how to stop. He pushed off the door frame, and stood there, looking around wildly. He had come. Sherlock had come to find Molly. To make Molly happy. To make up for his wrongs. To try to protect her, somehow, the way he'd protected Mrs. Hudson. He had come, and now here he was, in her home. But he couldn't see her. Where was she? Why wasn't she there? The wicked little Mycroft-y voice in his mind gave a wicked little giggle, it was sharp and it hurt. 'Well, she's probably gotten tired of you, Sherlock. Gotten sick of the way you mistreated her. Got tired of the pain. And now she's gone and left, hasn't she? She's gone. Molly is gone forever. Molly's gone, Redbeard's gone, you pushed them away, you disappointment.' Sherlock let out a groan that sounded too much like a sob, squeezing his wet eyes shut, and scratching desperately at his ears. No. No, it wasn't possible, Molly wouldn't just leave him. She _wouldn't_. She _couldn't_. He stumbled forward, nearly walking into a wall, suddenly desperate. And then he was shouting.

 

“MOLLY? MOLLY!” he roared, panic making his voice rough. His head was spinning. “MOLLY! MOLLY, MOLLY!”

 

“Sherlock?!” came an alarmed squeak from down a hallway somewhere to Sherlock's right. He whirled around, eyes rolling around as he tried to find the source. And then, she was there.

 

Molly was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, down at the end of a short hallway. She had very definitely just woken up, and looked both very cross, and completely terrified. Light from a bedside lamp illuminated her, and for a second, Sherlock couldn't breathe for all the relief. Because she was standing there, wearing a long t-shirt. It was white, and the bottom of it was grazing the middle of her thigh. She shifted her weight, and Sherlock found himself staring. He had never noticed her legs before. They were long and slim, but they had this curve to them, a gentle slope. His eyes traveled up, tracing the way the baggy shirt somehow both hid and revealed her slight, womanly frame. The slender waist. The soft, heavy breasts. The collarbone which dipped just below the neck of her shirt. That long neck. And then he was gazing at her face. Her eyes were opened wide, her lovely, sweet little mouth was gaping open. Her skin was soft pink with sleep, and her hair tumbled down to her waist. Through his drunken haze, Sherlock looked at Molly. Looked at her, really looked. He looked, and made no deductions. Well, he made one.

 

He thought she looked like the drawing of an angel he'd once seen in a book.

 

“Molly,” he said weakly, arms stretching out toward her as he wobbled in her direction.

 

“Sherlock, what's going on, what's wrong?” she hissed, eyes darting around wildly as though trying to scope out a source of danger.

 

“Molly, I- I needed to see you, to see _you_ , and I- I couldn't knock, and...” His sentence died away as he stumbled a little and fell against a wall. A thought seemed to hit the tiny woman.

 

“Sherlock, are you drunk?” she demanded shrilly, closing the distance between them and putting her hands on his shoulders so she could examine him. Her eyes were so big, gazing at him with such worry, and Sherlock felt his face contort in agony. He made a soft, whining sound and fell to his knees in front of her. He grabbed fistfuls of her shirt and buried his face above her hip.

 

“I'm sorry, Molly. I'm so truly sorry, and I killed him, I killed, and I- I- Can't solve it, can't solve the case, know who did it, know _why_ , but it's wrong, it's all _wrong_!” he sobbed. She stood frozen, shocked. Her mouth opened and closed, and she stared down at the head of dark, curly hair at her waist. And then she swallowed hard, and knelt down in front of him.

 

“Sherlock, listen to me,” she said quietly, trying to sound comforting as he lifted his head to stare at her with bright, teary eyes. “You killed him. You did. And it was horrible. But he would have hurt John, and Mary, and you. He would have hurt others, too. You were in an awful situation, and you did what you felt like you had to do. And I know it's hard now, but you need to try to come to terms with it.”

 

He was still staring, and now he was mumbling too. His shaking hands reached up and came to rest on either side of her face as he tried to force his eyes to pull her into focus. His face contorted into a small, distressed little smile.

 

“You're always- You always help me, always there for me. You're always here when I need you,” he said, voice cracking and waving under the strain of emotion and the better part of a bottle of bourbon. Molly's face softened, though a wariness had crept into her eyes.

 

“Well, of course. I mean, you're my friend Sherlock, I care about you, that's what friends do,” she said. His chin wobbled, and his eyes looked glazed. He was aware of a heat rising up from his chest. A heat that felt... Affectionate? He brought her face close to kiss her on the cheek, or forehead, as he had in the past, but his movements were slow and sloppy. He didn't realize he had kissed her until he'd pulled her into a hug, knocking off her balance so that she was almost in his lap.

 

There was a pause, in which both of them stiffened. Molly's breath had hitched. Sherlock was just suddenly very still. Slowly, they pulled apart, Sherlock's eyes focusing on her mouth. The pad of one thumb slid just under her bottom lip in a curious way. Molly was just staring at him, bewildered, mind scrambling to catch up with the moment. Sherlock leaned in, his lips brushing gently at hers in an experimental sort of way. And then one of them made a soft sound, and he was kissing her, almost attacking her mouth with his own. He pulled her further into his lap, not hearing or simply ignoring the soft protesting sound she made against her lips. Sherlock deepened the kiss, one the fingers of one hand threading through her long hair as he cradled her head. He alternated between quick, soft, nipping kisses, and long, deep ones, as though he was drinking her in, sucking her bottom lip into his mouth, drawing a soft, breathy moan from her. But as he made to slide his tongue into her mouth, she stopped, and quickly disentangled herself from him, scrabbling backward a good couple of feet. Her hair was mussed, her lips looking a little bruised, and she was panting anxiously.

 

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” she asked, and her voice sounded small.

 

“Well, I _was_ kissing you,” he replied as though it was obvious, rolling forward onto his hands and knees, starting to crawl toward her. She jumped to her feet and backed away till her back hit a wall. Still he advanced, his pale eyes pinning her in place, his breathing ragged.

 

“Sherlock, stop. Stop this. You can't do this, you don't _want_ me that way!” Molly hissed, pressing further into the wall. “You don't want me in any way, you never have,” she continued. Her voice sounded a bit thick, full of confusion and warring emotions, a rather large part of her just wanting to accept all this as being the situation and lead the drunken genius into her room.

 

“Oh, no, Molly, no. Don't talk like that,” Sherlock murmured, his voice sliding over her skin as he stood all too quickly and fell up against her in one movement, hands landing on either side of her to support his weight. “I just never thought of you that way because I _don't_ think that way,” he explained, one hand moving to span across her collarbone, rather effectively trapping her between the wall and his body. “But Molly, you have always been here, supporting me, wanting me...” he pressed his body fully against her in emphasis, making her shiver. “And I've been so- So terribly harsh, so unkind, I haven't appreciated you in the way you want, the way you deserve.” Suddenly, his brow lifted in a helpless sort of way, and a strange look came over him. Gone was the seductive expression, replaced with something that looked like begging. In a flash, he looked like a young boy, trying incredibly hard to please everyone at once. “I won't mind, Molly, you don't need to worry. I care about you, you've become so important to me! I would be- I'd be _honored_ to do this for you. I know I can please you. I know...” his voice came out dark and lethal as other hand slid down her body to grab her hip, grinding himself against her. “...you'd love it.” Molly shuddered, feeling a pang of lust hit her, roiling in her abdomen. Lust mixed with... Something else.

 

Sherlock was staring into her face, like a predator considering his prey. He growled softly in his throat, and tilted her head out of the way as he brought his mouth to her neck. He placed a hot, wet, open-mouthed kiss to the side of her throat, dragging his teeth against her rapid pulse.

 

“Sherlock,” came Molly's voice, soft and pleading, and he let out a cross between a chuckle and a contented sigh, his breath tickling her shoulder.

 

“Sherlock, please,” she said, turning her face completely away from him. He almost didn't hear her as he caught her earlobe between her teeth, pressing close enough against her that he could feel her nipples hardening against his chest. The hand on her hip slid up and pressed against her breast, squeezing the fullness of it softly.

 

“Please what, Molly? What do you want, what would best... Please you?” he breathed into her ear, nuzzling into her hair and breathing in the light scent of her honey shampoo.

 

“Please, stop this.” Molly's voice wavered, but there was an unmistakable edge to it. Sherlock paused. And then he pulled back slightly to stare into her eyes.

 

“What do you mean, Molly? This is what you want, this is what you've wanted all along!” he said, his voice sounding oddly hard, his slur all but unnoticeable. She turned her face to look at him, and there were tears in her eyes.

 

“Not here, not like this,” she said quietly, determinedly. He looked nonplussed, and then upset.

 

“How do you want it, then?” he snarled, and then grabbed her by the waist, pulling her along against him as he backed away from the wall. She gasped a little as he grabbed her wrist hard, forgetting his own strength in the heat of the moment, drawing a hiss of pain out of her that he didn't hear. Then he dragged her in the direction of the light of her bedside lamp. Entering her bedroom, he pulled her into his arms, up off her feet, and threw her bodily onto her bed. The action stole the air out of her chest, and she didn't make a sound as he climbed on top of her, spreading her legs with his knee.

 

“Is this how you'd prefer it?” he asked, a touch frantically, one hand finding a hip, the other sliding up her shirt to her breast. And then he kissed her again, and it was aggressive. He kissed her like his life depended on it, slanting his mouth over hers and catching her lips with his teeth. He pressed his tongue into her mouth, sliding it against hers, and only stopped when he could no longer breathe. It was then he noticed the tears sliding out of her eyes and onto her sheets. He assessed the situation, his hands pinning her down, nails digging into her flesh, how wildly he'd gone for her. Sherlock realized that he had hurt her, really, truly hurt her.

 

The realization was like a slap to the face, and he jumped backwards off of her, landing on the floor. Molly stayed on the bed for a moment, trying to calm herself. Her breath kept catching in her chest, burning in her throat, and the tears wouldn't stop. When at last she'd managed some degree of composure, she slowly rolled to a kneeling position, and she looked at Sherlock. He was sitting in the corner of her room, limps splayed like a broken doll. Tears were streaming silently down his face. He hiccuped, and then he was sobbing, great, broken sounds grating out of him. Molly rose slowly, and left the room. She returned a few minutes later, after the bulk of his crying had ended, holding a cup of tea and a slice of dry toast. She sat down in front of him, handing over the steaming cup.

 

“Here, have some,” she said quietly. He looked at her from under his lashes. His eyes were red and bloodshot.

 

“I hurt you,” he said glumly. “I hurt you all along, and then I tried to fix it, and I made it worse.”

 

Molly considered that for a second. “Yes, you did,” she said slowly, looking down at the floor. “You used to hurt me a lot. It was a bit like getting punched repeatedly in the stomach, talking to you.” Her voice had gone very soft, and she spoke in such a plainly honest way that Sherlock found himself unable to look away from her.

 

“It was like, we'd chat, or I'd bring you a coffee, and for a second I could pretend I mattered to you. But then you'd look at me, but it was like you didn't see me at all, really. And it felt like I didn't even exist.” She spoke haltingly, in the tone of someone unsure of how much they really wanted to share. “But then you went away, and things were so... So very awful. I knew you were okay, so in a way I was better off. But I had to sit there, watching everyone around me mourning and grieving, and I knew I had a way to make it all better, so everyone'd be happy again. But I coudn't tell them, and it was horrible.” She looked up, catching Sherlock's eye. “It made me stronger, though. I saw I could have a life, and have fun, and not pine away after someone I couldn't have. And I- I guess I was still pining, in a way, but it felt like I'd gotten so much stronger. And now you're back, and sometimes it's like before, but it doesn't hurt anymore.” Molly pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Sherlock, why did you come here?” she asked, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

 

Sherlock drew in a deep breath, unable to look at her anymore. A combination of guilt and alcohol moved him to be honest with her, as she had been with him. “I was... Feeling. Things. Awful things. About Magnussen, about friends. About people I hurt.” He clenched his fists, staring despondently at the floor. “I killed. I killed a man whose crime was possessing such great intellect, that he couldn't allow room for any feelings. A man who hurt whoever he wanted to, out of selfishness. And it occurred to me that in my life, I have treated many others that way. Hurting because I didn't care enough not to. And now I do care, and I want to make others feel good, show that they matter to me. And when I thought about who I wanted to show appreciation for most, I thought of... You.” He looked at her now.

 

“Why the- the-” Molly's mind would not offer any words, dumbstruck at what Sherlock had said, so she settled for waving around the room, taking in the mussed bed and the bedroom door which was hanging strangely on its hinges now after Sherlock had dragged her through it. His mouth twisted sheepishly, and he rolled up his sleeve, showing her his arm. She stared at it, again, brow lowering at what she saw. “Is that- Are- Are those nicotine patches?” she demanded. “You're wearing five nicotine patches??”

 

Sherlock shrugged, wobbling a little beside her. “I may have also had a cigarette and the greater part of a bottle of bourbon,” he admitted. Molly jumped to her feet and dashed out of the room, returning seconds later with a tall glass of water and a sleeve of crackers.

 

“Drink this down now, do you have any idea how dangerous that is?!” she said shrilly. “And eat these, too!” she added, throwing the crackers at her head. But Sherlock had stopped listening. He was staring at the floor with a sense of growing apprehension. Molly took in the look on his face, and dove into action, grabbing his arm and dragging him out of her room. Minutes later, she was crouched beside him, rubbing his back as he emptied his stomach into the toilet. She peeled the patches off of his arm, grimacing at the smell and the sounds of her friend, although not feeling as bad as she normally may have. There was a disgusting sort of give and take where he'd finish vomiting, she'd pass him some water, he'd drink a little, turn around and start vomiting again. After about an hour and a half, he seemed to be completely spent. Molly pulled him to his feet, wrapped an arm around him, and lead him to her bedroom.

 

Molly sat Sherlock down on her bed and pulled off his shoes. Then she removed his shirt, which hadn't fared too well over the past hour, and took it into her bathroom where she started it soaking in her tub. By the time she returned, Sherlock had sprawled on her bed, laying on his side, and blinking blearily at the safety bucket she'd put down on the floor beside him. She very gingerly undid his belt, sliding it off of him so he'd be a little more comfortable, and then she pulled her blankets up around him, patting him on the shoulder, and moving to set up the couch for herself. Before she could though, a long-fingered hand curled around her wrist. She looked down to see Sherlock trying to keep his eyes open as he gazed up at her.

 

“Molly,” he slurred, sounding pathetic and incredibly sad. “Please don't leave me.”

 

Molly looked down at Sherlock, the man she'd been in love with for the past six years at least. The man who had lead her on, turned her down, inspired passions and then left her cold. The man who, in a drunken fit of fear, shame and guilt, had kicked in her front door scaring the living daylights out of her. The man who had then physically forced himself on her, thinking in some daft way that he owed her sex for all the frustration she'd inspired, before weeping all over her, being more honest than she'd ever thought he'd be with her, and then promptly spewed out a lake of vices. The man who had struck fear into the hearts of criminals, who had aggravated royalty, the man who'd pretended to be dead for two years to protect his friends. The man who was now staring at her with red, tired, adoring eyes, looking more like a drowned kitten than any man had the right to.

 

And she crawled into bed behind him, gently curving her body against his back. One hand softly combed through his hair, the other still being held by the broken little genius. And Molly Hooper sighed as he drifted off to sleep, feeling cross, indignant, violated, and more than a little grossed out. But mostly, strangest of all, feeling just a little bit loved.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the drama.

Sherlock woke up the next morning, and immediately wished that he hadn't. It was early, there was a soft, pink light creeping up outside the window, filling the room with a pretty glow. To Sherlock, it was agony. And the mattress was too soft, which seemed strange to him, because it had never bothered him before.

 

Then Sherlock remembered, this was not his bed. He was at Molly's. The last thing he remembered was trying to give her the sex he thought she'd been wanting, then she was crying, then he was crying, and then... Well, he vaguely remembered thinking he was going to be sick. Given the empty, growling feeling in his stomach, he supposed he probably had. He tried to stretch, hoping that relaxed muscles would lessen the pounding in his head, when he became aware of a warm spot at his back. Sherlock very gingerly rolled himself over. Molly was there beside him. She was laying on top of the blankets, using her arm as a pillow, and curled into a very tight little ball. Blinking hard at her, he saw that gooseflesh had risen up along her arms and legs, which she had tried to solve by stretching the end of her t-shirt as close to her knees as she could to warm up. Meanwhile, Sherlock had both the fat feather pillows under his own head, and was laying quite cozily under a thick layer of blanket.

 

All this was confusing, and a little upsetting. She had taken up post at his side when he was drunk. After he had accosted her and made her cry, which was ironic, given that he'd been endeavoring to make her happy. He frowned, trying to remember past the painful buzzing in his head. He had been sick. Somehow, he had gotten into the bed. He could remember Molly tucking him in, telling him there was a bucket on the floor, and that she would just be out on the couch if he needed anything. But she wasn't on the couch, she was here, on the bed, curled with her back to him.

 

Sherlock blinked. Of course. He had asked her to stay with him. He'd been feeling weak and shaky, and irrationally wishing that his mother was there to take care of him, and he'd reached out to Molly. She'd spent a cold night in the fetal position, laying with the man who had groped and upset her.

 

Something in Sherlock's chest twinged. He had tried. Tried so hard to make things right, and all he had done was make them worse. Now she was hurt, both emotionally and physically, for Sherlock could see a light purple mark on her wrist which looked suspiciously like a hand print. His fault. And to add insult to injury, she'd been left to freeze beside him on an unseasonably cold night while he took all the warmth and comfort she had. Sherlock sighed darkly, feeling more than a little angry at himself. Not to mention hungover, though he rather felt like he might still be drunk.

 

After a moment of thought, Sherlock slowly slid out of the bed, trying not to make noise or in any way disturb Molly. He took one of the pillows and came around to her side, reaching out to her. Gently, carefully, he slipped a hand under her head, lifting it just enough to slide the pillow under it. And then he stood back, very still, till he was sure he hadn't woke her. Given the circles under her eyes, he suspected she was very definitely asleep, and likely to stay that way. And then he considered his options. He had hurt her. He had broken in her door, and physically damaged her. She was almost certainly upset at him. He ought to leave. But at the same time, he was in no state to do anything at this point, his systems were still down, there was too much alcohol still inside of him. And he was exhausted. So, the couch then. He'd stretch out there, sleep for a little while longer, and then take himself home. Sherlock made to leave the room, when he heard a shaky noise behind him. Molly's teeth were chattering. He stopped, and looked back into the room. A double bed with a tall, wrought iron frame. The sheets were white, the thick blanket was yellow, the drapes were a very light green. There was no paint on the beige walls, but there were paintings, posters, prints of art works. A small white dresser was up against a wall, with two, small bottles of perfume, a brush, a hand mirror, and a few pictures in their frames. A closet was built into the opposite wall, and in it hung a number of sweaters and cardigans, with a couple of dresses back in the corner. It was a dull room, the blanket was the most colourful thing in it. It was efficiently organized, and full of comfortable things. And in the middle of it, was Molly. Even in sleep her brow was furrowed in a worried way, her lips parted softly. Molly, the one who'd given him anything he'd requested. The woman who thought she didn't count. The woman who mattered to him so much more than she would ever know.

 

He studied her, thinking of her words last night. She was right, he realized, looking at her. While he'd been off trying to destroy everything Moriarty had created to eliminate his danger, Molly had been growing into a strong, capable, beautiful woman. She had grown a spine, started to properly understand her worth. It showed in the way she carried herself, it was there in her eyes. Strength. Confidence. She had become breathtaking. Sherlock breathed, and then returned to the bed. Because for all she was now, she was also cold. He pulled the covers back, and crawled back into bed. Ever-so-carefully, he wrapped an arm around her, and pulled her back into him, so he could pull the blankets up over her. In her sleep, she nuzzled back into his chest, letting out a little sigh, and sliding her fingers into the spaces between his. Sherlock stilled. He was being snuggled. He let out a little sigh of his own, thinking sleep would never come to him now, he could never sleep with another person, he always found it disturbing and uncomfortable. Resigned, he pulled her closer, tucked her in, and then lay back, her head tucking easily under his chin.

 

Moments later, he was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a confession. I originally planned to make this a two-parter, ending it with them falling asleep. But I've grown sort of attached to this, so I don't have any idea how much longer it will get. I hope you all like it, though!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, such as it is.

It was around eight o'clock in the morning when Molly's alarm started singing beside her bed. Her hand darted out and slapped it till it stopped. She let out a soft groan, rubbing tiredly at her eyes, and started to pull herself out of the bed, when she heard an answering little grumble behind her. She froze, taking stock of the situation, and the arm that was slung around her waist tightened it's hold on her sleepily, dragging her backward until her back hit a chest. A very bare, male chest. She remained still as the chest shifted, the body behind her adjusting itself. Long legs stretched, and then curved up to rest against hers. The arm over her waist stretched out in front of her, and the hand at the end of it curled around her forearm, pulling her even tighter against that warm, solid chest. Molly chewed on her lip for a second, confused, waiting for her sleepy brain to connect the dots. 'Tom?' she thought, he was certainly the cuddly sort. But no, he favoured those face-to-face cuddles that always kind of bothered her, especially in the morning with his rather shockingly bad breath. And besides that, they weren't together anymore. And then she remembered the night before, the reason that she was so very tired, and who the arm belonged to.

 

Molly Hooper was being cuddled by Sherlock Holmes.

 

A small, crazed part of her brain wished that her phone was closer so she could take a picture, partly because she wanted photographic evidence of a cuddly Sherlock, and also partly so she would have a picture to remember this moment with, for days when she needed cheering up. But she quickly buried that thought, and very slowly turned her head to look back at him.

 

Looking at him, Molly couldn't remember a time he looked this peaceful. Even that terrible day when she'd had to look at his corpse, with blood smeared on his face and streaking through his hair, there had been an odd sort of tension in him. Maybe it was her own tension, colouring the way she saw his “dead” body? But now, all the stress had gone from his face. His dark hair was sort of preciously rumpled, curling on his forehead and against the pillow, and his normally pale skin had a sort of warm glow to it in sleep. Long, dark lashes brushed against those sharp cheekbones, and his lips were parted. His chest expanded and contracted with his slow, deep, even breaths. Molly felt an ever-familiar twinge, a sort of wonder that she had become accustomed to as once again his otherworldly looks caught her off-guard. The high cheekbones, the wide, tilted eyes, the lips that were both full and not. He was a work of art. He was a work of art that was now holding her possessively, the way a child might cling to a teddy bear. A sort of wistful smile perched on the corner of her mouth. How long had she wanted this? How many hours had she wasted, dreaming, trying to picture him in her bed? She breathed a very quiet sigh, feeling almost blissful. But she could see a purple mark on his lip from where he'd crashed against her. Not only that, she could feel a soreness at her hips, and there were long, dark fingerprints marring her wrist.

 

Molly frowned, feeling angry, hurt, vulnerable, happy, and most of all, incredibly confused. He had been drinking. Worrying over... What, his humanity? His emotions? Committing murder? She wasn't altogether sure. And somehow, that had turned his mind to thoughts of her, how he'd made her sad by not being interested in her. So he'd somehow made his way over to her home while completely slaughtered, kicked her door down, and had tried to have sex with her to make up for his lack of feeling. It was definitely worrying, that line of logic. But she'd dealt with drunks before, and in a way she understood. Seeing him like this, peacefully asleep and with his multitude of defenses down, trusting her as he was to be like this in her presence, she found it hard to be mad at him, though she knew she probably should, he had essentially molested her. And then heard her say she didn't want it, and responded by throwing her onto her bed and molesting her more. It had been violent and terrifying. Even when he was in the bottle, she was no match for him, and he could have hurt her much more without meaning to. She shuddered at the thought, and the small tremor disturbed the sleeping man. Still asleep, his brow furrowed, his mouth shut, and he threw a leg over her hips, locking her down in place. Molly snorted, equally exasperated and amuse. She looked over the clock. It was six after, so she'd have to take a shorter shower, or have breakfast on the run. The corpses weren't going to examine themselves, and as lovely as the present moment was, all dreams had to end sometime. With that and a sigh, she poked Sherlock in the chest.

 

“Sherlock, it's time to get up,” she said in a small, sing-song voice. “Wakey wakey!” she added, and then winced at how silly this all was. But Sherlock made a soft grumbling sound, and then gave a big stretch. A stretch that paused when he realized his movements were impeded by a certain female. His eyes slanted open, and he looked over at Molly. He then slid away from her very quickly, and succeeded in rolling off the bed. Molly gasped, and crawled over to look down at him, a jumble of tall limbs and dark hair. She bit back a little giggle, and poked his leg, which was still half on the bed.

 

“Are you alright?” she asked.

 

“Yes,” came his muffled response as he rolled over to a sitting position. He looked at her, and then at the bed, the floor, the ceiling, unable to look her in the eye. “I'm, uh. Sorry. About all... That,” he said, waving a hand around. “And the bed, I intended to go sleep a little longer on the couch, but you were... Cold, I think, you were shivering, which is a sign of being cold,” he said. And then he winced, and rubbed his head irritatedly. Molly just nodded. They sat there in silence, neither of them sure of what to do next. Sherlock seemed incapable of looking at her. After a moment, she huffed, and got out of the bed. She tugged at the bottom of her shirt in a distracted, self-conscious way.

 

“I'm going to make some tea,” she said after a moment. “You can use the bathroom first, if you'd like, and then I'll be in the kitchen. With some tea.” With that, she spun on her heel and quickly left the room. Sherlock stared after her, considered telling her that he'd prefer coffee, and then decided against it, considering the night they'd had. Instead, he stood, pleased to note that the extra sleep had eased most of his hangover. Then he picked up his belt from her dresser, and his shoes from the floor, and went to use her bathroom. A few minutes later, he was standing in front of the sink, taking stock of himself. His eyes were red, and they felt dry and itchy. He was very uncomfortable about how much he'd cried the night before, though he was surprised how little that discomfort was in relation to the fact that Molly had seen him. It was more to do with the fact that he'd allowed himself to be moved to tears. It wasn't something he made a habit of doing. Sherlock ran his hands through his frankly horribly mussed hair, trying to get some semblance of order. His nose twitched as he caught a scent, and he turned to look in the bathtub. His shirt was there, floating in the water, looking rather worse for wear. He frowned, and picked it out, grabbing some of Molly's soap and rubbing at the stain. It didn't help much, but he wrung the sopping fabric out and drained the tub nonetheless. He took another look at his reflection, and then turned and walked in the direction of the kitchen.

 

While in the bathroom, Sherlock had heard some scuffling around outside the door, and saw now that Molly had donned a soft looking red robe, tied up her hair, produced two steaming mugs of tea, and was starting to prepare a breakfast of toast, porridge and fruit. She looked up at the sound of him entering the room, and he noticed a rather pretty blush on her cheeks as she saw his bare torso. Averting her eyes and stammering a bit, she sidled past him, inviting to sit down at the table as she made a dash for her room. She returned a moment later and tossed a shirt at him, already apologizing.

 

“Sorry, I'd completely forgotten about your shirt, it's just- It- I- There was a bit of a mess, so I was soaking it...” she trailed off, flapping her hands and not looking at him. He pulled the shirt over his head, and found that it was almost not too small. But in spite of the way it stretched rather uncomfortably across his chest and the fact that it was a pale shade of lilac, it was still a shirt, and he thanked her for it. She nodded, giving him a tight little smile and handing him a mug. Looking down, he saw that it was in fact full of coffee, rather than tea. He gave it a sip. Two sugars. He looked up at her. She shrugged, and he nodded his thanks. The pair sat down and tucked in to enjoy breakfast and a tense silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright then!
> 
> So I have one more chapter planned for this little story. I hope you're all still enjoying it!
> 
> Thanks for reading. :}


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A talk is had, and emotions are shared over a grapefruit.

The silence was becoming unbearable. They kept looking up at each other, to see if the other would speak, and then their eyes would meet, and they would look away uncomfortably. Sherlock had eaten all his toast, and was now picking at the plate of fruit Molly had put in front of him. Molly had finished her porridge, and was staring at her fruit blankly, because she'd given the better fruit to Sherlock. Her strawberries were wilting. She frowned, and pushed herself up, returning to her fruit bowl. She grabbed a grapefruit, and chopped it in half. Then, turning on her stove, she grabbed the owl-shaped sugar bowl on the counter, spooning out the brown sugar, and rubbing it into the flesh of the grapefruit. She plopped both halves into a pan with a pat of butter, and began frying her grapefruit. When it was done, she grabbed her plate and Sherlock's as well, and gave half to each of them before plopping down in her chair and sliding the grilled fruit over to the detective. He frowned down at it, then up at her as she attacked her half viciously with a spoon. She stopped her assault when she found him looking at her.

“Not a fan of grapefruit?” she asked lamely. He shrugged.

“Not really, no,” he said. Then it was quiet again. But then... “Doesn't it rather subtract from the benefits of the grapefruit to prepare it that way?” She blinked at him.

“Wha'?” she asked around a mouth of hot, sweet grapefruit.

“Grapefruit is generally consumed due to the fact that it promotes good health. Those who eat it for taste alone enjoy it because of the typical, sour grapefruit flavour. Both of these attributes are diminished when said fruit is grilled with butter and brown sugar.” Molly swallowed and gave a little shrug.

“My mum used to make it this way for us for breakfast. Apparently this is just the way they ate grapefruit in the seventies.” She poked at the fruit with her spoon. “Tastes kind of awful, actually,” she added as a sort of afterthought. Sherlock looked up at her with a tiny frown. 

“You continue to make it even though you dislike it?” he asked. She shrugged again. 

“It makes me think of mum. She'd always give me an extra piece if I was nervous about a project or something, said it would make me stronger. So I eat it when I'm feeling... You know. Upset.” He lowered his eyes to the grapefruit.

“You're upset,” he repeated. “I've upset you.”

Molly opened her mouth, ready to deny, to make him feel better, but instead she jammed in another spoonful of fruit, frowned a little, and swallowed her words. 

“Yes. Yes, you did,” she said after a moment. He nodded, still not looking at her. And then he started to stand, preparing to leave.

“I am sorry for any discomfort I've given you, Molly,” he began, but she cut him off.

“My aunt was a drinker,” she said suddenly, and rather loudly as well. He looked up at her, confused. She shook her head, and waved a hand at him to sit back down again. “She was a bit of a drunk, really, my Aunt Susan. She'd usually have a few shots of crème de menthe in her coffee to start the day, and then just sort of snowball, so by dinner time she'd be completely sloshed, and one time when she was visiting for the holidays, she brought along a pet mouse, one she picked up at a pet store. Mum and dad were cross that she'd gotten me a pet, so she killed it, and I came down at midnight to try to see Santa, and she was sitting at the table with this dead mouse, and she was crying, really, really hard-” Sherlock cleared her throat loudly, cutting her off. She looked up, and he raised an eyebrow at her, clearly wondering about her point in all this. She cleared her throat as well.

“Aunt Susan got me a pet mouse that Christmas, because when she'd visited at Easter, I'd been reading about Pavlov and his experiments. She knew I liked science, and I think in her mind, I'd end up a proper little Pavlov, with a group of trained mice, all coming at a run if they heard a bell. But it made my parents angry, and she didn't know how to deal with it. When I came down at midnight, she said she didn't mean to kill it, she was just going to try to stuff it back in it's little cage so she could return it, but her hands were shaking, and it wouldn't go back in the cage. So she broke its neck. She didn't even realize it had happened till she noticed it wasn't struggling anymore.” Molly took a deep breath, trying not to get caught in the memories of that miserable Christmas, the horror at the sight of the poor little mouse competing with the horror of seeing an adult having an emotional breakdown. She continued.

“My point is, Sherlock. You scared me last night. You scared me really bad, because you were like Aunt Susan. It was like, in your mind, you caused a problem, so you were going to try to fix it, but you didn't know how, so you just panicked and started shoving. And you hurt me, without meaning to. It was an accident, but it still hurts. You can't do that, Sherlock. Drinking won't solve your problems,” she said, her voice wavering a little. Sherlock gave a hard little sigh.

“I have no intention of becoming dependent on alcohol, Molly,” he said. She shook her head with a sad little smile. “Nobody does,” she said. Before he could continue arguing, she waved a hand at him.

“Look, I get that sometimes a drink can be a good thing, and I get that sometimes you lose control. Sometimes, you need to not be in control. I understand. The thing is, though, last night...” she trailed off, at a loss for words, and Sherlock was wise enough to stay quiet.

“Last night, I was scared. Not just for you, I was scared of you. And I should be so angry at you right now, it shouldn't be easy for me to see you. But- See-” she made a frustrated little noise, and squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to get the words to make sense. “I understand drunk logic. I understand looking at a little girl reading about an experiment on dogs, and thinking 'I'm going to get her a mouse'. And I know that you're probably feeling bad about me. I mean, it's no secret that I'm interested in you,” she stammered, eyes still squeezed tight, and face tilted down as a blush stained her cheeks. “I have been since I first met you. And you never cared. It never mattered. I'm willing to bet it just made things easier for you, because it's so easy to exploit people who half want to be exploited by you. There were days when I came so close to quitting because of- Oh, but that's not the point. The point is,” her eyes opened, and they were bright with emotion as she looked at him. “I forgive you. I forgive you for all of it. For treating me badly, for using me, all of it. Because I genuinely believe that you just didn't know any better, you didn't know that using people you didn't care about was wrong. It is wrong, obviously, but you're learning that now. And I forgive you for last night for the same reason. You didn't know any better. And while it was a seriously stupid way to try to make up for things, I guess I see the logic there, and in a funny way I appreciate that you tried.” Molly paused, and Sherlock found himself rather amazed by her. 

“It's going to be strange between us for a while,” she said softly. “I'm not going to be able to see you quite the same way. But, you and I? We're fine. Okay?”

Sherlock sat back in his chair, rather surprisingly at a loss for words. He was still not used to people speaking to him so frankly, so honestly, about their feelings. Well, at least not when the feelings were positive ones. And he was still not used to this feeling that came bubbling up inside of him. A feeling of great affection. A funny sort of caring. This time, though, it felt different. Not the way it did when he felt caring toward John. Looking at Molly, who was blushing and somewhat nervously twirling at strands of her long hair, he felt the bizarre urge to draw her in close, wrap his arms around her. Hold her. Feel her head tucked under his chin again as he breathed in the scent of her hair. He blinked. And then he nodded. A small look of relief came over Molly's face, a little smile, the forehead smoothing, the tension gone from her shoulders. Sherlock blinked again, studying the soft, brown eyes, the long, honey coloured hair, the enticing way her robe flared open at the neck to reveal the sensuous curve of her shoulder. What was this strange, foreign emotion? He picked up his half of the grapefruit, and stuck the entire thing in his mouth, sucking and biting the flesh of the fruit out of the rind. He swallowed it all down, seeds and all, and dropped the peel back onto the plate, hot, sugary, tangy juices dribbling over his chin. And then he stood abruptly and opened his mouth.

“I have never been good at expressing my emotions. Frankly, most of the time I see little need to dwell much on feelings. They distract from intellect, from logic, and from all that I consider important. However, the case with Magnussen-” he spat the name out “-has opened my eyes to the fact that emotion is indeed a most important part of maintaining one's humanity. From this point, I plan on becoming more in-tune with my feelings in an attempt to better situate myself with- With friends.” He looked down at her, where she sat with her mouth fallen open in surprise. “I am telling you this because I wish to make it clear that I care deeply about you, Molly. I have grown to value you as a friend, and you have inspired feelings in me that nobody else has. You are unique, and I would like to see more of you, so that I might further study the effect you have on me.” And with that, he gave a firm nod, and quickly exited the room, shoes in one hand, his belt in the other.

Molly sat at the table, mouth still gaping, completely thrown. What had just happened? She blinked rapidly as she tried to work through his words. A few moments later Sherlock reappeared, shoes on his feet, belt around his hips, and with his wet shirt in his hand. He kept talking from the point he had left off at.

“After my actions from last night, I will understand if you'd prefer to not see me for a while. When you feel as though you can be in my presence comfortably again, I would like to invite you to join me for coffee at Baker Street.” Molly's eyes widened a little, and after a moment she gave a quick little nod. Sherlock answered it with a nod of his own. “Now you have to get ready for work, and I must go speak with John. He turned and walked toward the front door. Molly scrambled to her feet and followed him. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob, and turned back to her. He pointed at his chest. “I'll have this washed and returned to you immediately,” he said. She nodded, eyes still wide. He turned to the door again, then paused, his forehead creased as he thought. Then he turned quickly, and grabbed Molly by the shoulders, bringing himself down to capture her lips in a brief, startled kiss. Before either of them could really process what had just happened, he straightened, patter her on the shoulder, and was gone out the door. Molly stood, body tense, eyes huge in her face, and lips tingling in a pleasant way. And then the emotion rose up in her, and a crazed smile pulled at her mouth, a high pitched gurgling squeal coming from her throat. Then she shook herself, reminding herself that she was still cross at Sherlock Holmes. Not that it stopped her from doing a little dance on the way to her shower.

Out on the street, Sherlock hailed a taxi. As he slid in the back and gave the address to the driver, who very pointedly did not stare at the lilac t-shirt, he began formulating a list of questions for John, what sort of activities did one engage in when out with a woman, were flowers still acceptable gifts to offer and if so what kind, etc etc. He glanced back at Molly's home, and touched his mouth wonderingly. He had a lot of research to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it, I'll definitely be writing more of them in the future. Thanks to everyone who has given me feedback, and, as always, thank you for reading. :}


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